


Ani L'Dodi

by CodenameIanto



Series: Ki Tovim Dodecha Mi'Yayin [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AO3 keeps shuffling my tags out of order. ARRGHH! Sorry about that!, I think those are all the warnings but please please let me know!, Irish Catholic Steve Rogers, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Judaism, M/M, Period-Typical Antisemitism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rampant Use of Yiddish, Rated mature due to graphic descriptions of Bucky's torture at Azzano, References to the Holocaust, Shoah, Slow Burn (kinda), Use of the “K-slur” to refer to Bucky and several homophobic slurs for Bucky + Steve, Work In Progress (will be finished), brief + non-graphic mention of child death, bucky needs some matzah ball soup, if you are a tech wizard please explain, oy gevalt, wow these tags are so long + will be updated as fic progresses! sorry!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-12 22:49:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12970098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodenameIanto/pseuds/CodenameIanto
Summary: James Buchanan Barnes. Serial number #32557038. Born March 10, 1917, Brooklyn. Parents Gershom and Freyda Barenstein, later George and Winifred Barnes. Best friend Steven Grant Rogers. Safe at home. Born July 4, 1918, Brooklyn. Mother Sarah Rogers.James Buchanan Barnes. Serial number #32557038...(in which Bucky is very Jewish, raised by immigrant Jewish parents who want their children to be safe, free, and perfectly American. But America wasn't ready for a gay Jewish boy from Brooklyn or his scrawny, sick Irish Catholic best friend. It certainly wasn't ready for the scraped-knuckles, back-alley bravery of Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers. And HYDRA? Those Nazi bastards have no idea what's coming for them.)





	1. Ani L'Dodi

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Yiddish and Hebrew translations, as well as historical notes, will be given in Part 2 of the series, since they are way too long for an end note... sorry? Additionally, if you are not on mobile, you can mouse over italicized Hebrew and Yiddish words, and a brief translation will appear!  
> Google: _searched_  
>  HTML: _formatted_  
>  AO3: _**hacked**_  
>   
>  2) This is a WIP, but, as promised in the tags, I love this fic and I am committed to finishing it, no matter how hard college is kicking my ass (which as it turns out, is pretty hard). That said, uh... super sorry about the eternity it took me to post Chapter 2.  
>   
> 3) As a sapphic Jew, this was both hard and healing to write. I love any representation I can get of LGBTQ+ characters or even rarer, openly, _observantly_ Jewish characters! To have an intersectional, gay AND Jewish character, even if I have to write him myself... means more to me than I can put into words. Thank you for sharing this world with me, whatever it means to you.  
>   
>  4) This is my first fic in a long time, so any feedback -kudos, comments, criticism- would be supremely helpful and welcome! Either way, thank you very much for reading, and enjoy!

James Buchanan Barnes. Serial number #32557038. Born March 10, 1917, Brooklyn. Parents Gershom and Freyda Barenstein, later George and Winifred Barnes. Best friend Steven Grant Rogers. Safe at home. Born July 4, 1918, Brooklyn. Mother Sarah Rogers. 

James Buchanan Barnes. Serial number #32557038. Born March 10, 1917, Brooklyn. Parents Gershom and Freyda Barenstein, later George and Winifred Barnes. Best friend Steven Grant Rogers. Safe at home. Born July 4, 1918, Brooklyn. Mother Sarah Rogers. 

James Buchanan Barnes. Serial number #32557-

“What is your name?” The voice barked. Harsh. In German. He’d learned a damn lot of German on that table. He squeezed his eyes shut. _James Buchanan Barnes. Serial number #32557038. Born March 10-_ “I will not ask again. What is your name?” 

He allowed himself the briefest moment to feel his heart pound one more time inside of his living chest. Then he opened his eyes, fixed his gaze to the angular HYDRA mask, and said, with the strongest Brooklyn accent he could muster, “Barnes, Sargeant Barnes. Hey pal, you ever hearda checkin’ a fella’s dog tags?”

The voice twisted into a soft and deadly friendliness. “Of course, Sargeant, we checked your tags the moment you arrived in our facilities. However, it seems that somewhere along the way -- perhaps amidst the terrible fighting near Azzano? -- they were, how shall I put this… _altered._ ” Shit. _Fuck._

“... which leads us to suspect that behind all of the scratches and nicks, you may have something to hide. I will ask you one more time, and if you do not tell me the truth I will use this to burn your alias into the soles of your feet.” The HYDRA agent amiably held the cigarette lighter in front of his face, just close enough that his eyes crossed in order to focus on the sleek metal cylinder. “Do you understand me?”

James Buchanan Barnes took one deep breath in, then sucked his cheeks in until they provided a bloody cushion between his molars. He didn’t want to break a second tooth. He set his jaw and he waited.

Bucky shut his eyes as the man stood up, and screamed and screamed and screamed.

~~~~~~~~~~~

He was three years old, and his grandfather pulled him onto his lap, carefully tugging the book closer to the edge of the table. His _zayde_ had scattered little candies down the first page, a couple pennies’ worth. It was a bounty, lemon drops and candied honey drops and his favorite, the little round peppermints. His grandfather’s voice was warm and scratchy, throaty with Yiddish. “Now, _yingele,_ read the page. When you get so far you reach the candy, I will put it on your tongue so you will know the sweetness of books and study.” The peppermints had fizzled on his tongue when he finished the page. They burned in the best way. His mouth tasted minty and his _zayde_ was so proud.

~~~~~~~~~~~

His feet burned and burned and burned. Everything tasted of blood and fire and the hiss of the lighter on his arches.

~~~~~~~~~~~

He was five years old, and Mama asked him to translate her words into English for the nurse. “She says his name is Jack. Barnes. And she wants you to spell it for her out loud in English.” His mother gave him her special look for when he forgot to be extra polite to the grown-ups who didn’t have accents. He hurried to add, “And she says please.”

The nurse smiled as she filled out the form and handed it back to Mama, who reached for it with the hand that wasn’t holding the new baby. His little brother. Jack. (Not _Jack,_ Jack,  Tatty said. Jack-who-we-can-call-Ya'akov-at-home-but-ONLY-at-home, Jack.) He looked up again. The nurse had a nice smile, like his teacher at school. They both had gaps in their front teeth and talked too loud, like he would know all of the English words if they just said them louder. She said, looking at Mama, “Jack. J-A-C-K. Barnes. B-A-R-N-E-S.” Then she bent down and looked at him and asked, “What is your name?”

And he had grinned, feeling tall since she was smiling at him again, and said, “I’m Ju-” Mama prodded him in the back. He’d forgotten again. He felt like his face was heating up, pink and hot, like when he had the fever in the winter. He swallowed again, hard, but held his hand out rakishly. “I’m James Buchanan Barnes, and that’s my mama and that’s Jack, my new little brother.” The nurse showed him the gap in her teeth again and shook his hand cheerfully. His face was still burning, embarrassed at forgetting how he was James when they weren’t at home.

~~~~~~~~~~~

He sucked in air to scream and inhaled blood where he’d bitten nearly through his cheek. When he coughed, it jerked his foot harder into the lighter. He screamed and sobbed, still coughing.

~~~~~~~~~~~

He was eight years old, and Ricky Moretti had him on the ropes out back behind the school. Ricky should’ve been in the fourth or fifth grade, except for how he kept missing school and falling behind in reading, so he was a lot taller and heavier than James. He was also better at fighting. Ricky had hit him hard in the stomach, and after a few good shoves, he was down on the ground, done for. The fella was leaning over him, sneering, “I know what you are. You don’t belong here. My pop says it was the Jews that broke up the union in secret and lost him his job, and seein’ as you’re one of ‘em-”

“Hey!” Ricky whipped around and James pulled his head off the ground to see a shrimp of a kid, maybe forty pounds soakin’ wet, with his tiny fists balled. “Get offa him!” 

Ricky looked him up and down and laughed real hard. “Or what? You’ll sock me a good one?”

“Yeah, I will! A real good one!” The kid danced about, circling his fists around like they were caught in a bicycle wheel. Seriously, what was his problem? Didn’t he know that a guy built like Ricky could knock him into next year? Was his brain as small as his arms?

He groaned. “Ricky, listen, leave him out of it. He’s a shrimp, he’s got nothin’ to do with this.” 

Ricky cocked an eyebrow at him. “Nothin’, huh? Okay, pal.” He paused, considering. Then he snorted hard and hocked a big one right onto James’ forehead. He got up and shoved the kid real hard into the wall of the school building, then gave them both a mock salute on his way out. “I’ll give you fairies some alone time!” James was still rubbing the phlegm off his face with his shirtsleeve; by the time he looked up, Ricky was gone.

James peeled himself off the pavement and went to go help Shrimp to his feet. He scrubbed his face one more time, then offered his hand. “Hey, thanks for helping me out back there. What’s your name?”  


Shrimp grabbed his hand and pumped it. “I’m Steven Grant Rogers. I’m seven and a quarter years old and I’m in second grade. Why was Ricky beating you up?”

Shoot. “I, uh, guess he just doesn’t like me very much. Or anyone. Listen, steer clear of Ricky, alright? He’s a mean one, but forget about him. Steven Grant Rogers is a mouthful. You got a nickname, pal?”

Shrimp lit up. “Yeah, call me Stevie. And I’m not gonna steer clear of Ricky until he steers clear of me. I don’t like bullies. Hey, what’s _your_ name?”

Stevie may have been a shrimp, but he sure had _chutzpah._ Mama would like him. He put his hands in his pockets and scuffed at the ground. “I’m James Buchanan Barnes. I’m in second grade, too. And I’m eight.” He stood up straighter, proud of the authority that came with being older, but Stevie was having none of it.

“And you said Steven Grant Rogers was a mouthful?” Stevie grinned like a scamp. “You got a nickname, pal?”

Huh. “I don’t know, not really… People call me James,” but even he could hear the uncertainty in his voice. He winced. Somehow it felt like he’d lost a game he hadn’t realized they were playing.

Stevie lifted his chin to look him in the eye. “That’s dumb! There are a million Jameses in Brooklyn. You should pick a nickname. Your own name. You could be Jim or Jack or… Buchanan is good. Special. I never met another Buchanan before. But it’s long and stuffy, like an old person's name. What about... Bucky?”

 _Huh._ His own name? Somehow it felt right, like his real name, like “James” never had. “Nah, Jim’s a grown-up’s name and Jack is my little brother. But maybe…” He allowed a slow, warm smile to spread across his face. “Bucky. Buck-ee. I like it. _Bucky._ ”

He stuck his hand out to Stevie and said, “Hi, my name’s Bucky. Thanks for saving me from that jerk back there. Do you wanna come over and play tin soldiers with me? I have a few extras, so we can both fight the bad guys.”

Stevie smiled with his whole face, like he was in the theater so the whole audience, even the back, could see he was grinning. “Anytime, Bucky.” When Bucky hesitantly smiled back, Stevie yelled, "Well? What are you waiting for? I ain't got all day!" He took off, and they ran all the way back together. Or at least, they ran a block or so and then Stevie started coughing like he was gonna throw up a lung, so then they stopped. When Stevie was breathing again, they walked slowly back to Bucky’s place, but he felt like he was still running all the way. Bucky. The word felt so natural in his mouth. _Bucky._

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Bucky! BUCKY!” He caught his breath, sobbing. “My name is Bucky.”

“Do you think a childish nickname will satisfy me? I want to know your _name._ ” The HYDRA agent pressed the lighter, hard, between his pinky and second-to-last toes. He had no voice left to scream, but the silent arch of his body was almost enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~

He was standing at the paperwork desk, the final station to be completed until he was well and truly in the army, the stamp on his RSVP to Uncle Sam’s thoughtful invitation. He’d cleared every step (Steve would kill him for how fast he was passed through medical) and all he needed to be a leashed-and-collared army dog were his tags. He gave the officer his slickest grin. “James Buchanan Barnes, serial number #32557038, tetanus vaccine 1941, tetanus-toxoid today, blood type A-. Next of kin Steven G. Rogers-” he was so annoyed at how surprised the mook looked, “-yes, that’s Steven G. Rogers, R-O-G-E-R-S, 569 Leaman Place. Brooklyn, New York, New York, U. S. of A., sir.” Finished with the smooth recital he’d been mentally rehearsing while waiting in the interminable line, he pasted the cocky smile back on and waited.

“Very efficient, Private Barnes,” the officer had a don’t-fuck-with-me-pal look on his face, “and your faith?” Oh, _shit._ Why would they… was it for burial preference? Fuck, what was he going to say? “Your choices are P for Protestant, C for Catholic, or H for Hebrew. Move it, Barnes, I don’t have all day.”

He was a flirt and a braggart and a player, but he wasn’t a liar. Not when it came to things like this. And yet… the dozens upon dozens of articles in the Yiddish newspapers that littered the family’s kitchen table. The letter that had come from his mother’s sister, begging them to do anything to get her family out of Poland to America, to Cuba, to Singapore, to _anywhere_. The hundreds of reports of Jewish POWs being singled out, shot on the spot, “disappeared,” sent East… He remembered his grandfather telling him, so solemnly, “My little _kemfer,_ my little fighter-with-a-cause, remember it is a _mitzvah_ to save your own life.” But it was also, when it came down to it, a _mitzvah_ to die a Jew. When it came down to it, he didn’t want to die Protestant or Catholic. It was not who he was. He didn’t want his last sight to be a chaplain giving him last rites that weren’t his. _Even,_ said the rare voice in his head that sounded as brave as a bear, _if that meant being shot or shipped off East._ He took a deep breath, and his voice only shook a little when he met the eyes of the officer and said, “Hebrew, sir. I am a Hebrew.”

The officer looked up at him. “Very well, Private Barnes. Your tags will be issued shortly.” Bucky thought maybe he caught the officer’s eyes softening, but there was a long line behind him and he had to get moving.

His mother would have twisted his ears with worries and chidings for doubly endangering himself like this, but somehow… somehow he thought his _zayde_ would be proud.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The voice was so sickly sweet. “If you only tell me why your tags are so damaged, I will stop. Soldiers do not treat pieces of their uniform like this, not when they have blood type and name and next of kin to be called when they have to scrape you off the ground and your tags are the only hope of identification. Simply tell me, and I will stop.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Shipping out was a grand adventure after all the weeks of boot camp. The U-boats and Panzers were movie villains, too far off to be dangerous. Bucky had been ribbing the other guys, bouncing around, flashing his lighthouse grin. They were all buzzing, feeling the word “hero” attaching itself to their lapels. But when night fell, Bucky was left alone on his bunk, silently staring past the ship’s steel hull, fingering the “H” stamped into his dog tags. By the time they reached England, the “H” had been carved off altogether, nicked and scratched with a penknife. Just another wartime casualty. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

It stopped. It stopped it stopped it stopped it-

He heaved a shuddering, choking breath. Everything was blood, iron, fire, metal. He could smell his own flesh burning.

"-nochmal. Was ist-" His ears were ringing, his stomach turning. He couldn’t make sense of anything. He had to understand. He had to think, to know, to translate, to understand. He had to he had to-

His mother’s voice echoed in his head, singsong Yiddish, like a child’s lullaby. "Nokh a mol, nokh a mol. Vos iz..." There it was. “-again. What is-”

The lighter was pressed to his feet. He was screaming screaming screaming, until finally somehow he ruptured and he felt his lips creating the words, “JUDAH BEREL! JUDAH BEREL! MY NAME IS JUDAH BEREL BARENSTEIN!” 

He felt it echoing in him, in his bones and his guts. Judah Berel Barenstein. Barenstein. Bar-en-shteyn, Judah Berel. His _zayde_ called him by the Hebrew, Yehuda Dov. He would always say, “Yehuda Dov, my little _kemfer,_ my little fighter-for-a-cause, remember who you are. _Yehuda Dov,_ a Jew and a bear. Keep both inside you always.”

Yehuda Dov opened his eyes. The HYDRA agent was laughing, taunting, describing to him in detail everything they were going to do to him when he was resettled in the East. Everything they were doing, to his people and his family, while he was strapped to this _fucking_ table, unable to do a g-ddamn thing.

One thousand memories flashed through his mind: His _zayde,_ teaching him to read Torah with sweets on the pages. His mother, ensuring he always introduced himself as “James” in front of the _goyim._ Ricky shoving him to the ground, the day he met Steve. His mother, loving Steve, loving the American nicknames he gave her son. Walter Mills, pushing him hard against a wall in junior high and shouting _“kike”_ in his ear, then him shrugging Steve off when his bad ear didn’t catch the word, saying Mills just has a bug up his ass today, that’s all, and Steve looking serious until Bucky says “bug up his ass” which always makes Steve laugh until his asthma catches up to him, the punk.

His father, giving him Zayde’s _tallis_ and _tefillin_ for his _bar mitzvah._ His father, who went to _shul_ long after the letter came that his brother-in-law and nieces were killed in a _pogrom_ and he stopped believing in G-d. His little sisters, who learned to sew and cook and raise children while he was out getting bruises and black eyes in back alleys with Steve. His little sisters, whom he taught to box before he taught Stevie, because being a dame ain’t enough to protect a pretty Jewish girl from the kinda guys who might let Bucky and Steve off the hook with a black eye and a few bruised ribs. Little Jack, who died of diphtheria when he was four, how Mama hadn’t spoken for a month and  Tatty looked like stone, like a clay _golem_ waiting for someone to tell him what to do and who to protect. How the _shul_ took up a collection when they couldn’t afford a gravestone.

More memories, flashing so quickly he could hardly see them: The light catching in Steve’s hair, pretty like a dame’s. The time he brought Steve a week-old copy of the _South Jersey Star_ to put in his shoes, and Steve laughed at him, called him a traitor, said he might have holes in his shoes but he ain’t wearing a Jersey rag yet. How his mother would somehow make chicken soup every Friday night, even if they could only afford second-hand bones for broth, and invite Steve and Mrs. Rogers over every _Shabbos,_ saying how it’s a _mitzvah_ to have guests and they’re so lucky the Rogers keep doing them this favor. How everyone really knew it was so Mrs. Rogers (“oh please, Bucky, you’re my second son. At least call me Sarah”) had one less meal to worry about and little Stevie could get some meat in him. The way Steve looked when he was so sick in the winters, in ’26, ’32, ’33. It got so bad in ’35 that Sarah had called in the priest to give Steve his last rites. How the mook bent in over Stevie’s face when he asleep and stick-thin and barely breathing, dying, and told Bucky to get off the bed and out of the way. How Bucky was so damn sure that the priest could see right to the heart of him, could see he was a dirty Jewish queer refusing to get out of bed with the sweet, sickly little Catholic boy. He didn’t move one damn inch. The consequences of anything that could come of this were so much less than the idea of Stevie dying alone, without him, it was fuckin' laughable. The priest had measured him with his eyes, nodded gently at him, and then prayed over Stevie with a weary compassion, and Bucky -- so ready for a fight, so ready to be Judah Berel in front of a priest, just once -- was left with nothing but grief and adrenaline. And then Stevie had lived. And after that night, whenever Judah Berel was left to rage and grieve without a wall to throw himself against -- when the voice like a bear howled every time someone hurled the words at him, “kike,” “fairy,” “dirty Jew,” “queer” -- whenever Steve punched some mook and looked back at him in the second before he was thrown to the ground and Judah Berel couldn't catch his breath for loving him -- he had pulled swaggering, cocky Bucky down over his face. Bucky was handsome, confident, a ladies’ man with a dame on each arm, slick with words and a bit of a brawler, loyal, sworn to stick with Steve to the end of the line.

And here it was. The end of the line.

So he peeled Bucky off of his face and out of the lines of his posture, dropping the cockiness and banter like a stone. He let all of the anger, humiliation, pain, and strength paint the surface of his body. He was Judah Berel. He was Yehuda Dov. He was a Jew and a bear. He would not die until HYDRA strangled itself around his name.


	2. V'Dodi Li

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Asset is fragments. A fragment is a pottery shard. A fragment begins with sharp-edged pain. A fragment slides into blood-red, gritty clay, too thick for thought. A fragment ends with sharp-edged pain. In between fragments is the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I won't waste time with excuses, as it's been over a year since I posted the first chapter and I have absolutely nothing to say for myself. 
> 
> If it helps any, I have the rest planned out and the epilogue actually written, so... uh.... well, I better not make any promises, as my posting reliability is obviously shot to hell, but there will be more someday!
> 
> P.S., did some house-cleaning -- historical notes and translations can now be found in the second work in the series. 
> 
> *Yoinks this into the void*

The Asset is fragments. A fragment is a pottery shard. A fragment begins with sharp-edged pain. A fragment slides into blood-red, gritty clay, too thick for thought. A fragment ends with sharp-edged pain. In between fragments is the cold.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Asset-fragment is clay. It is not cold. It is not the edges of cold. It is moved to the mission location. The bridge is tactically inadvisable. The target is acquired. 

The Asset engages the target. The target is fighting. The mask is removed. The target is not fighting. The target makes a noise indicative of injury. The target is not physically compromised. 

The target makes a word. The word is not an order. The word is an appellation. The target makes the word. “Bucky?”

Who the hell is Bucky.

The Asset-fragment is clay. The Asset re-engages with the target. The target is fighting. Observing the target causes injury to the eyes of the Asset. Like the sun.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The functionality of the Asset is impaired by 42%. The Asset is experiencing a sensation of pain behind the eyes. Moderate severity. Comparable in location to the effects of wiping. The wipe results in singularity. Focus. The Asset is not experiencing singularity.

There are many fragments behind its eyes. Their edges are sharp. The functionality of the Asset is impaired by 48%. It is being pulled backward through the fragment. Observing the target. Again. Again. The target is not within physical proximity. Repeated non-physical target observation impairs the Asset.

Choices are for handlers. The Asset is not a handler. The Asset makes a choice. Pain for pain. The Asset makes words. “The man on the bridge. Who was he.”

The handler looks at the Asset. The handler makes words. “You met him earlier this week on another assignment.”

The Asset analyzes this fragment. There had been a mission. One target. Level 6. The Asset had been pursued. The arm of the Asset had been impaired. The man on the bridge. A circle. Vibranium. Like the arm of the Asset. The circle was familiar. The Asset caught the circle. No thought in the clay. The Asset knew the circle. The Asset knew the man on the bridge.

Choices are for handlers. The Asset is not a handler. The Asset makes a choice. Pain for pain. The Asset makes words. “I knew him.”

The handler is displeased. The Asset has chosen this pain. The Asset deserves this pain. The handler is kind. The handler makes words. “Society is at a tipping point between order and chaos. But if you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine.” 

The handler assesses. The functionality of the Asset is impaired by 53%. The handler makes words. “And HYDRA can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.”

The functionality of the Asset is impaired by 64%. Repeated non-physical target observation impairs the Asset. Observing the target causes injury to the eyes of the Asset. The target. The target is like the sun.

Choices are for handlers. The Asset is not a handler. The Asset makes a choice. Pain for pain. Death for life. The Asset makes words. “But I _knew_ him.”

The handler rises. The handler makes words. “Wipe him.”

The functionality of the Asset is impaired by 68%. The Asset is in the clay. Sliding to the edge of the fragment. The handler is kind to wipe it. To bring it singularity. 

But.  
But.  
The Asset does not-  
The Asset does not _want_ \- 

The Asset does not want the fragment to end.

~*~*~*~*~

The Asset-fragment is clay. It is not cold. It is not the edges of cold. It is moved to the mission location. It neutralizes low-level targets. It neutralizes one mid-level target. The man with the wings. Like a bird. Now the birdman has only one wing. Neutralized.

The target is acquired. The Asset engages with the target. Objective: Eliminate. The functionality of the Asset is impaired. Observation of the target causes injury to the eyes of Asset. He is too bright. It was tactically inadvisable not to equip the Asset with sun-goggles while its eyes adjust from the underground darkness to the light of day.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Asset injures the target. The target injures the Asset. The target appears to have acquired a mission. The Asset calculates. The mission of the target must not be completed. The Asset re-engages with the target. The target is fighting. The Asset’s non-metal arm is dislocated. The Asset becomes entrapped beneath a metal beam. The Asset cannot complete its mission. The target completes his own mission. The Asset has failed.

The target approaches. The Asset waits to be terminated. The target does not terminate the Asset. 

The target. The target. The target removes the beam from the Asset. The Asset was not informed that the target was a mission-assist. The Asset has never been given a _target_ who is also a _mission-assist._ The target-mission-assist makes words. “You _know_ me.”

The Asset experiences. Several sensations. Rising internal temperature. Increased strength despite impaired functionality. Elevated heart rate. The Asset experiences. _Anger._ Anger is new. The target. The target has angered the Asset. The Asset makes a choice. The Asset makes words. “No I _don’t!_ ”

The Asset re-engages with the target. The Asset is fighting the target. Impaired functionality is irrelevant. The target is _not_ fighting the Asset. Mission-assists do not fight the Asset. But. This is the target. The target cannot be both an Objective: Eliminate and a mission-assist.

The target-mission-assist makes words. “Bucky.” It is an appellation. The Asset does not know it. “You’ve known me your whole life.” The Asset does. Not. Know. Him. The Asset _re-engages._

The stupid. Piece-of-shit. Target-mission-assist. Will. Not. Fight. 

What is wrong with him. 

He is still making words. “Your name - is James - Buchanan - Barnes.”

The Asset is experiencing a sensation of pain behind the eyes. High level of severity. Comparable in location to the effects of wiping. The wipe results in singularity. Focus. The Asset is not experiencing singularity. The Asset is experiencing _anger._

The Asset makes words. Loud words. _“Shut up!”_

The Asset _punches_ the shield. The target-mission-assist goes sprawling. The shield is round. Colorful. Vibranium. Like the arm of the Asset. The shield was familiar. The Asset knew the shield. No thought in the clay. Why. Why did he know the shield.

The target-mission-assist pulls himself up. He is severely injured. His functionality is impaired by approximately 80%. He makes words. “I’m not gonna fight you.” The target-mission-assist. He. He _drops_ the shield. It falls through a hole. It disappears into the fiery clouds and the river below. What the hell is wrong with this guy.

He makes words. “You’re my friend.”

Stupid _fucking_ target-mission-assist. The Asset _re-engages._ Objective: Eliminate. When did he stop. He shoves the target-mission-assist and tackles him to the floor of the helicarrier. His head hangs off the edge. The Asset could snap his neck in a hundred different ways in less than a second. The target-mission-assist does not move. What is “friend.” The Asset does not _fucking_ know this punk. This target. This mission-assist. What _is_ he.

The Asset makes the loudest words. _“You’re my mission!”_

The Asset punches the mission’s face. Again. Again. Again. Again. The Asset hurts and hurts and hurts him until his injuries comprise a reduction in functionality of approximately 95%. The Asset raises its metal arm to punch again. It is injuring the mission. But the mission must have reinforced bone density. His neck is not broken. His face is damaged and cheekbone broken. But the Asset can still see his features. On any other man they would be pulp. The Asset considers. For a split second the Asset looks. Holds back. 

The mission makes words. Quiet. Gasping. “Then finish it. ‘Cause I’m with you ‘til-” The mission’s voice hitches. “-the end of the line.” 

Those words. Those _words._ The Asset _knows_ those words. 

The Asset does not understand. It only hears the words. They are physical. They are a punch to the gut. The words leave the Asset winded.

The Asset is experiencing a sensation of pain behind the eyes. Extreme severity. Comparable in location to the effects of wiping. The wipe results in singularity. The Asset is not experiencing singularity.

There are many fragments behind its eyes. Their edges are sharp. The functionality of the Asset is impaired by 82%. It is being pulled backward through the fragment. Observing the mission. Again. Again. 

The mission. Small. Skinny. Ill. Dressed in non-contemporary clothing. The Asset’s mouth making words. “You can’t die on me, punk. I’m not going home until you can breathe without wheezing like a fuckin’ steam engine, ‘cause I’m with you. ‘Til the end of the line.”

The mission. Small. Skinny. Face the same and body like an naked defeathered chick. Eyes red and mouth a pale line of grief. The Asset’s hand. Flesh. On his shoulder. The words. Again. “‘Cause I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

The mission. Large. Muscled. Dressed in the same uniform -- less blood. More panic. Hand reaching fingers reaching to the Asset. Clinging to a train. Snowy. Windy. Everything. The whole world is just loud - fast - freezing - wind. The train hurtles hurtles hurtles and there it is. The end of the line.

The mission drops away beneath the Asset’s feet and falls

falls

f

a

l

l

s.

Choices are for handlers. Fuck them. The Asset makes a choice. Pain for pain. Death for life. The Asset changes the objective it was given. 

Objective: Eliminate. _Overruled._

Objective: Observe and Protect. _Engaged._

The Asset jumps from the burning helicarrier. The Asset locates the mission. The Asset extends a hand. Drags the mission to shore. The Asset pounds his damaged chest until he coughs and spits water. Eyes still closed and muscles limp. The Asset pounds twice more for good measure because -- because the mission has asthma. And shit lungs. Source of information unclear.

The Asset drops the mission on the gravelly sand and leaves.

~*~*~*~*~

The Asset gathers information. The mission is acquired. The mission was admitted to MedStar Georgetown University Hospital. At hour 22:14 the Asset enters the building. The Asset enters from an outside window. Eleventh story. The Asset is not observed.

The Asset pulls the hood of the gray sweatshirt onto its head. It hunches its shoulders. It is critical to the new objective that the Asset not be discovered. It cannot place the mission at risk. Its presence represents a high-level risk to the mission.

Its presence is not. Is not worthy. Of the mission.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Asset arrives at the room. The mission is acquired. The Asset experiences a singularity it has not been given since the last wipe. The mission is acquired.

The room is empty. Except for the mission. Visiting hours ended at 21:00. According to the observed pattern the Asset has approximately 11.25 minutes until the nurse returns for night rounds.

The Asset sits in a tiny white plastic chair. The Asset. The Asset hates this chair. Hate is new. The Asset has not experienced _hate._ But. The Asset is sure. The chair is too small. It squeezes the Asset. The plastic makes scratchy noises against the metal arm. The Asset _hates_ the chair.

The Asset puts aside the hate. It is not important to the clay. The mission is important. The mission is asleep. His face looks different because of the sleep. The Asset studies the face. The hair is yellow. Like the sun. It does not have mud in it anymore. It does not have blood in it anymore. It is spread on a pillow. The Asset looks at the hair for approximately 2.75 minutes. The mission’s forehead is smooth. The Asset thinks of the word. Child. The Asset is experiencing a sensation of pain behind the eyes. Moderate severity. Comparable in location to the effects of wiping.

The Asset looks away. Then studies the eyes. The mission has dark eyelashes. The mission’s eyes are closed. The Asset remembers. The Asset _remembers._ They are blue. Bright. Observing the mission causes injury to the eyes of the Asset. The Asset looks away. Then studies the nose. It is long and crooked. It is too long for his face. It is crooked like it was broken. Many times. It is a little hooked. The Asset thinks of the word. Beak. The lips of the Asset want to move. Upward. The Asset does not understand. It keeps them still.

The mission has lips. They are pink. They are open. A little. The Asset can hear the breath. Whistling a little. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. The Asset wants. Want is new. The Asset has not experienced _want._ But. The Asset wants to stay. With the mission.

The Asset _hates_ the face. Almost. The Asset _almost_ hates the face of the mission. Hate is not right. This is something new. This feels like hate. It is physical like hate. Rising internal temperature. Elevated heart rate. The Asset wants to punch the mission. The Asset wants to break the mission’s stupid nose. The Asset wants to rip out the IVs and steal the mission and lock him in a cell. But. The Asset does _not_ want. To hurt the mission. This is something new. 

The Asset does not have handlers it hates. Or handlers it hates and does not want to hurt. The Asset does not have targets it hates. Or targets it hates and does not want to hurt. There is only the mission. And the new objective. The objective the Asset _chose._ By itself. This is something new. But it feels. It feels like a very old objective. The oldest.

It has been precisely 11.0 minutes. The Asset removes itself from the tiny white plastic chair. It hates the chair. It makes scratchy noises against the metal of the arm. The eyelashes of the mission move. They open. The Asset exits through the window and is already gone.


End file.
